


Pasta

by hollydermovoi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Diabetes, Diabetic shock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollydermovoi/pseuds/hollydermovoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt was Mystrade and Pasta</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pasta

Greg knew he was screwed. Sherlock had been driving his team up the wall- sending him running to one part of the city and them to another. _He was on vacation for bloody sake._ He deserved to _enjoy_ his retirement from the Yard, even if initially it had been a forced one. No one trusted a detective inspector who had relied on the deductive reasoning of a false genius after all, and he’d been let go fairly quickly after Sherlock had been falsely accused by that awful reporter. Although Sherlock, with Mycroft’s help no doubt, had cleared his name and Greg had been offered his job back, he’d refused and immensely enjoyed the sickened looks on his former supervisor’s faces when he informed them that he wasn’t going to come back and that Sherlock was their problem now.

But Sherlock had accepted his apology for having doubts about his deductions with unaccustomed grace, and had refused to work with the Yard at all unless Greg was present. This was why Greg got a rather generous check from Mycroft every month for his services as a consultant to the Yard. Today was the first time he’d shown up in person and offered to help them with Sherlock. He’d thought Sally would start crying from happiness. Anderson actually did so, and he really had to try not to laugh at the tosser. He’d never been happier than when Sally had dumped that man and moved on to Dimmock. Somewhere between the tears, and the insults, and the eye-shagging he’d forgotten to eat.

This meant his blood sugar was low, which he could have fixed with a can of Coke, or a dish of pasta, but there’d been no time for either of those things so far. He would’ve been fine going home and eating immediately, but a familiar car pulled up next to him right after he’d sent everyone home for the night. With a sigh, (and a grin because if he was honest, he enjoyed seeing Mycroft) he got in the car.

After exchanging a greeting with Anthea, Mycroft’s ever efficient assistant, he settled into a relaxed position. He’d learned long ago that these drives could take forever, or they could take ten minutes. Realizing he had a headache, he closed his eyes and breathed. Sometimes, if he meditated for a bit, he could push the headache away.

He never thought to remember that headaches (with some other mild symptoms that’d been written off as too much exercise after an indulgently lazy retirement) were a warning sign for hypoglycemia. And because his eyes were closed, he failed to notice Anthea’s worried look, or the way she’d glance at him and then send a message.


End file.
